“I do, though; and that literally.”
“And she suspected of arson and murder! Where are her connections and friends,—those who made her a lady? Why is she there alone, and, as you say, unfriended?”
“So it seemed to me. You might as well ask me why she is there, at all. I know nothing of all this. I heard plenty of reasons in the street, why she ought to be distrusted,—nay, convicted; for the feeling against her had got to be intense, before I left Biberry; but no one could tell me whence she came, or why she was there.”
“Did you learn her name?”
“Yes; that was in every mouth, and I could not help hearing it. She was called Mary Monson by the people of Biberry—but I much doubt if that be her real name.”
“So, your angel in disguise will have to be tried under an ‘alias!’[‘alias!’] That is not much in her favour, Ned. I shall ask no more questions, but wait patiently to see and judge for myself.”
The young men put a few more interrogatories, which were civilly answered, and then the subject was dropped. Well it has been said that “God made the country; man made the town.” No one feels this more than he who has been shut up between walls of brick and stone for many months, on his first escape into the open, unfettered fields and winding pleasant roads. Thus was it now with Dunscomb. He had not been out of town since the previous summer, and great was his delight at smelling the fragrance of the orchards, and feasting his eyes on their beauties. All the other charms of the season came in aid of these, and when the carriage drove into the long, broad, and we might almost say single street of Biberry, Dunscomb in particular was in a most tranquil and pleasant state of mind. He had come out to assist a friendless woman, cheerfully and without a thought of the sacrifice, either as to time or money, though in reflecting on all the circumstances he began to have his doubts of the wisdom of the step he had taken. Nevertheless, he preserved his native calmness of manner, and coolness of head.
Biberry was found to be in a state of high excitement. There were at least a dozen physicians collected there, all from the county, and five or six reporters had come from town. Rumours of all sorts were afloat, and Mary Monson was a name in every person’s mouth. She had not been arrested, however, it having been deemed premature for that; but she was vigilantly watched, and two large trunks of which she was the mistress, as well as an oilskin-covered box of some size, if not absolutely seized, were so placed that their owner had no access to them. This state of things, however, did not seem to give the suspected girl any uneasiness; she was content with what a carpet-bag contained, and with which she said she was comfortable. It was a question with the wiseacres whether she knew that she was suspected or not.[not.]
Had Dunscomb yielded to McBrain’s solicitations, he would have gone at once to the house in which Mary Monson was now lodged, but he preferred adopting a different course. He thought it the most prudent to be a looker-on, until after the next examination, which was now close at hand. Wary by long habit, and cool by temperament, he was disposed to observe the state of things before he committed himself. The presence of the reporters annoyed him; not that he stood in any dread of the low tyranny that is so apt to characterize this class of men, for no member of the bar had held them, and the puny efforts of many among them to build up and take away professional character, in greater contempt than he had done; but he disliked to have his name mixed up with a cause of this magnitude, unless he had made up his mind to go through with it. In this temper, then, no communication was held with Mary Monson, until they met, at the hour appointed for the inquest, in the court-house.
The room was crowded, at least twice as many having collected on this occasion as had got together on the sudden call of the previous examination. Dunscomb observed that the coroner looked grave, like a man who felt he had important business on his hands, while a stern expectation was the expression common to nearly all the others present. He was an utter stranger, himself, even by sight, to every being present, his own party and two or three of the reporters excepted. These last no sooner observed him, however, than out came their little note-books, and the gold pens were at work, scribbling something. It was probably a sentence to say, “we observed among the crowd Thomas Dunscomb, Esquire, the well-known counsel from the city;” but Dunscomb cared very little for such vulgarisms, and continued passive.